


my heart’s an ashtray and I lost my mind

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falcon And The Winter Soldier - Freeform, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mentions of Suicide, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Only Mild Though!, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Endgame, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Wilson, References to Depression, Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sam Wilson is a Saint, Suicide Notes, Suicide mention, Suicide trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 00:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20367976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: You bring the smokes, I’ve got the time.— Goodbye, Cage the ElephantHere’s the thing. Sam knew that Bucky had his issues— he’s always had his issues. But he seemed to always have it under control.Yet in the past few weeks Sam’s seen Bucky slipping: lost in his head, failing to listen and understand people, and drinking. A lot more than usual.Or: Bucky has an episode and Sam needs to talk him down from the roof of their apartment in New York City.





	my heart’s an ashtray and I lost my mind

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy!

When Sam stumbled back into the flat, it must’ve been well past eleven PM. The first thing he noticed was the line of empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter. At the end of the line was a half-filled bottle of jack, glinting in the soft moonlight and city glow through the window.

He narrowed his eyes, concern shifting in his stomach.

“Bucky?”

No answer, so he said it louder, moving towards the hallway where their rooms were. Nothing.

Here’s the thing. Sam knew that Bucky had his issues— he’s always had his issues. But he seemed to always have it under control. 

Yet in the past few weeks Sam’s seen Bucky slipping: lost in his head, failing to listen and understand people, and drinking. A lot more than usual.

Bucky’s not a drunk, and Sam knows this, so that’s why this kind of behavior is concerning.

“Bucky? Come on, man.”

Still no answer, and Sam was starting to get nervous. He told himself that it was probably nothing; Bucky could’ve just gone to the store.

But the beer bottles. 

Sighing, he shook his head. First he checked the bathrooms, and then decided to reach for his phone. He figured it’s better to be safe than sorry.

The phone rang, but no one picked up, so he quickly dialed again.

“Come on, pick up,” he muttered. Then, to his surprise, there was the familiar click of the phone being answered.

“Oh, thank God,” Sam said into the phone, relieved. “I was gettin’ worried. There’s... well, never mind. Where are you?”

There was a low buzzing sound from the other line, but no talking. Sam furrowed his eyebrows.

“Bucky? Are you there?” He checked his phone to make sure the number he dialed was right. “Hello?”

Still, nothing.

Suddenly the drumming noise of a helicopter grew louder. Sam leaned to the side, glancing up and out the window towards the sound. Sure enough, the chopper seemed to be landing on the building across the street. Their flat was fairly high up, so the sound was loud.

He pressed his phone up against his ear again. To his surprise, he could hear the helicopter through the phone lines. That meant Bucky was somewhere in the building— or at least somewhere near. 

“Okay, I know you can hear me,” Sam muttered. “I can hear the chopper.”

Gradually, the sound grew quieter as the blades stopped spinning, and then there was shuffling on the other end. Sam listened hard, and for a moment he swore he could hear someone breathing.

“What are you even doing? Where does anyone even go in this building if it’s not their own apartment?”

Sam knows he’s mostly talking to himself now, but he doesn’t care. There’s a nagging worry in the pit of his stomach that’s growing bigger by the second, and if there’s any chance Bucky could hear him, it’s best he keeps talking. Right?

Just to be sure, he checks everywhere in the flat, down to the closets. Bucky’s not there.

He checks the balcony next, and stops for a moment.

“It really just lights up at night, doesn’t it? The city?”

He looks around, down the long, busy street, both ways, and then up at the horizon— or whatever he can see of it. He view’s not as good as it would be if he were on the roof.

He turned around, looking up, squinting, until he could distinguish the night sky from the top of his building.

“You know, I’m about this close to checking the roof.”

—

He pushed open the door, wincing as the sharp New York night air pierced his skin. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the fluorescent lighting of the stairwell. 

He scanned the rooftop, eyes finally fixing on a figure all the way on the north side. The glow of a phone seemed to faintly light up next to it.

Sam hung up the phone, slowly making his way to the other side of the room. His t-shirt ruffled in the wind; damn, it was cold.

“Bucky?” he called out, even though he knew it was him. He could see the glint of light on the metal arm. 

No answer, but Bucky‘s shoulders seemed to drop a little bit. 

“I— I saw you answered the phone. Why... why didn’t you say something?” Sam was half-scared of the answer. 

Yet there was still no reply. Sam was almost afraid to step any closer, like he knew this was a delicate situation already. But he knew, for some reason, to keep talking.

“At first I was kind of scared that it was, like, a hostage situation. You know, in the movies, where the kidnapper takes the phone and answers it, but it’s just, like, heavy breathing.” San laughed, but even he could hear how forced it was. “No. I know you couldn’t get kidnapped. Hey, uh, why are you out here on the roof? Just... spur of the moment? Takin’ in the beauty?” Sam swallowed, bracing himself for the next question. “Or something else? ‘Cause... well, you know you can talk to me. You— would you just say something?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, before Bucky moved. He seemed to bring his hands up to his face, and Sam heard a sharp inhale. His heart started to pound.

“God, w-what’s going on? Are you— please, just say something. You’re freakin’ me out.” Sam tentatively stepped closer, and then crouched down. “Please, Buck.”

It seemed like forever, but finally Bucky moved again. 

“I don’t even know if this can kill me,” he whispered, shakily. He seemed to be breathing heavier than normal— as if his whole being was unhinged. “This height.” His words were still muffled by his hands, which he hadn’t moved, and his eyes remained shut.

Sam’s blood ran cold. “What?”

“I fell from further, in germany. In the war. I survived that. I— I can’t—“ There was a shuddering inhale. “I’m sorry.” He finally let his hands drop from his face, but kept it turned away.

Sam entirely didn’t know what to say. In his mind, they’d never really gotten this far into a conversation like this, so it was completely new, uncharted territory for him. Something told him to just keep the conversation going— keep him talking.

Instead he looked down to where Bucky’s hand had rested— on a folded, white paper.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Leave a note?” He drew one of his legs up towards him, wrapping his metal arm around it. Finally, he turned to look at Sam.

His eyes were red, and puffy, and his cheeks were streaked with tears. Quickly, he wiped them with his sleeve. 

“God, I’m such a fucking cliche.” He let out a bitter scoff, then, turning back.

Fear swirled in Sam’s stomach. This couldn’t happen. It shouldn’t be happening.

“Why’s that?” Sam murmured. 

“Why’s what? That I’m a cliche?” 

Sam nodded, and Bucky sighed. San could hear the tremble in his voice.

“I’m a war veteran. I’m drunk, on the roof of a New York City skyscraper, and I was about this close,” he motioned with his fingers, “to jumping off.”

“But you didn’t. Not yet.”

Bucky wiped his cheeks again, letting out another sad laugh. “That’s true.”

“Would you just talk to me? What happened?”

Bucky was silent for a while, and Sam’s nervousness rose.

“I found a file,” he whispered, finally. His words were slow, and a little slurred, but not terribly. “Something I probably wasn’t meant to see.”

“What was it?”

“The winter soldier’s file,” he said, voice breaking. “Seventy years, Sam. I wasn’t me. I hardly even know who I’m supposed to be.”

“That’s okay. That’s life.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I know I don’t.”

“I wasn’t only a criminal,” Bucky said, swallowing. “I was a cold-blood murderer. And I’m not talking about a soldier in battle, fair fight, nothing. I killed these people in silence, gave ‘em no chance. They didn’t even know what hit ‘em.“

“Where— where did you find this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Guess not.”

Sam could tell how hard Bucky was trying not to break down. He could hear the waver in his voice, the way it broke at the end of each sentence, like his guard, his _strength_, was crumbling before him.

“I wanted to be good again, you know? I wanted it so bad.” His face crumpled for a moment, and he wiped the tears desperately. “But I can’t beat it. I can’t do it, Sam. No matter how hard— how hard I try.”

Sam only nodded. There wasn’t anything he could say.

“Seventy years, Sam. Do you— do you know how long seventy years is? I’m a man out of time. I don’t belong here, I— I was supposed to die in 1945, on the train.”

“But you didn’t,” he said softly.

“Stroke of luck.”

“Maybe.”

“I’d trade my life back a hundred times if it meant I’d died then, when I was supposed to.” His voice was thick with grief and fear. “I can’t keep on living like this.”

“Bucky...”

“Why the fuck did you come up here?” Dull, tired anger seeped into Bucky’s words. Sam glanced to his left to see Bucky angrily wiping his cheeks with his palms, and fear flooded him yet again. “You couldn’t just let me do this one thing in peace?”

“Why did you answer the phone?” Sam countered cautiously. 

“I don’t know,” he said weakly, and it looked like his strength was almost gone. The anger had diffused into dull pain. 

Sam inhaled deeply, hating the way it shook, because it showed how scared he really was. “What’s it gonna take,” he asked softly, voice betraying him, “To get you off this ledge?“

And that was it. 

Bucky broke, shattered into a million pieces, all seeming to fly outward, but when Sam blinked it was just him. Small, and trembling, face buried in his hands, as sobs wracked his body. 

Sam absolutely hated it. He hated the fear, being this close to losing it all. He hated that he still didn’t know where he stood, because if Bucky was already this close to actually killing himself and Sam didn’t even know it, were they actually best friends? He’d thought they were, but his intuitions had been failing him recently. 

He hated not knowing where he stood, in the moment, and what could set Bucky off, and what he’d allow. It was terrifying.

“Shh... it’s okay,” was all he settled on saying, which sounded so much better in his head. In reality it was lame, awkward... and cold. God, it was freezing out here.

“Tell me how I can help you,” Sam said desperately, not daring to touch Bucky, even though all he wanted to do was pull him away from the edge. But he couldn’t.

Bucky didn’t even lift his face from his hands, and Sam quickly swallowed back the growing terror— that maybe they would lose this battle.

So he pulled through with the last resort, which was to just keep talking. He didn’t really know what he was saying, but he hoped it was enough to fill the silence, so that maybe Bucky would listen to him instead of the voice he seemed to have inside.

“I’ll make us apple cider,” he whispered quickly. “With cinnamon and sugar. And we can sit on the couch, and... and play cards, or something. Please, Bucky, just listen to me. It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay. I don’t know what you’re gonna do, man, I just... I’ll do everything I can to help you. I’ll sit up with you all night, I’ll... I’ll listen to what you say, I just can’t let you do this.”

Bucky couldn’t speak, he just stayed there, with his face buried in his hands, knees drawn up, trembling, and so small against the New York City night skyline. 

“Please,” Sam whispered. He tentatively reached out a hand, resting his fingertips on his one good shoulder. For a moment it was as if time stilled, and Sam’s heart jolted as Bucky moved. 

But instead, he fell backwards, into Sam, into his arms, leaning his head into his chest at a slightly awkward angle— but that didn’t matter. Sam grabbed tight, and something like relief courses through his veins.

“Inside. Let’s go inside.”

Bucky just nodded, a silent understanding, and hopefully a silent promise.

—

The mug of apple cider glowed warm in Sam’s hands. His stomach churned with a mixture of fear and bittersweet relief.

“Are you tired? Do you want to go to bed?” he asked finally, after Bucky was comfortably seated on their couch. He’d requested to have the TV on in the background, to help fill the silence.

“No,” he said, even thought he sounded exhausted. His face was red from both the cold and the tears. “Can’t sleep.”

“That’s okay. I’ll stay up.”

They didn’t talk for a while, just watched the pixels on the television move around, and that was enough. 

Eventually, though, Bucky shifted. 

“Maybe if I’d never found that file, I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t be like this. God, I wish I hadn’t found it.” His voice was scratchy, and it sounded like he hadn’t spoken in days. 

“Honestly, I think you were going to find it anyways.”

“Really?” Bucky squinted, rubbing his forehead. “Did you know about it?”

“I mean, no. But this was bound to happen eventually, right?”

Bucky seemed half-amused. “Hm.”

Sam swallowed thickly. “Hey. I gotta question. It’s just... it’s been bothering me.”

“Yeah?”

“Um... h-how long have you been, um, feeling like this? ‘Cause—‘cause, well, you could’ve talked to me in the beginning, but you didn’t. Which is fine, of course, ‘cause you don’t have to, but...” Sam rubbed his forehead, hating how fumbled his words seemed to be. “I’m sorry. I just— you know, I care about you a lot, and I know I’m an asshole sometimes... but I still thought you‘d be able to come to me.”

Bucky started for a moment, and Sam didn’t have it in him to meet his eyes.

“Sam... don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He challenged, melancholy sleeping through his words. “Don’t care? You know that won’t happen.”

“Stop, I... I know you do.” 

Silence. 

“Then _how_ could you do this?” Sam whispered, and it sounded so sad that he hardly registered his own voice.

He could see Bucky’s wall crumbling again, the way his stare faltered for a second. 

“I don’t know,” he breathed. “I was drunk, melodramatic, I... I scared myself again. It happens. I’ll be okay.”

“You can’t just pull something like this and say you’ll be fine. I... I should call the cops right now, take you to the hospital. You’re not healthy, Bucky. I don’t know how—“

“Sam, stop it,” Bucky muttered.

“No, I won’t,” Sam shot back. “I’m not equipped for this. I love you, man, but I can’t— I don’t know what to do right now.”

Right as Bucky’s face just about crumpled, he brought his hands up to cover his nose and mouth, and shut his eyes. Sam heard a sharp inhale.

“I know,” Bucky whispered, and the sound was desperate and destroyed. “I know, I know, I know...”

Sam breathed deeply, eyes fixed on Bucky’s huddled shape.

“When I met you, you were a broken shell of a person,” Sam said slowly. “All this time, you’ve built yourself back up. You got better, you changed with the times, you—“

“I’m still fucking broken,” Bucky interrupted with a whimper, voice failing him on the last word. It was the worst sound in the world. 

“Maybe. But you’ve been here before, Buck. And you were okay. Please, man. You’ll be okay again sometime.”

And then Bucky spoke up, sniffling to desperately stop the crying, in the smallest possible voice, and said the one worst thing Sam’s probably ever heard.

“How many times can a broken person break, before they turn to nothing?”

Sam felt his heart fall. He pictured a glass cup, glued together, over and over, and breaking again and again, until it was just glue and dust in the shape of a cup. He couldn’t let Bucky become nothing, in the shape of a person.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Bucky. Come here.”

And then Bucky looked up, finally, at Sam, tears falling down his cheeks for the second time that night, and fell into his arms.

It was human touch, Sam decided, that got people through the bad days. 

“Hospital,” he whispered, pulling his head back to look at Bucky. “Please, Buck. I’m not— I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“I can’t,” Bucky whispered back, fragile. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t do hospitals,” Bucky said, faltering. He wiped his cheeks hastily. “Too sterile. Too much... death.”

“What if it helps you,” Sam murmured. “What if... real help is the key to all of this.”

To Sam’s surprise, Bucky let out a small laugh. “You know what’s funny?” He said, turning and leaning his back against the couch cushions. “In the 40s, psych wards hardly existed— only for the crazies. You know, the real crazies. The poor soldiers who— who came back like I did? They just died. They either killed themselves or lived on like that forever. There was no PTSD, just... they called it shell shock in the Great War. We called it combat exhaustion. Those boys, they... well, a lot of people thought they were just weak. You know?”

“Times change,” Sam said softly. “It’s not weakness.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sniffled. “They used to do, um, electroshock, electroconvulsive, something like that. I know ‘cause I knew a buddy who had to do that. Came back different. It just wasn’t a good scene, those psych wards.”

“Damn,” he said. “Nowadays it’s better, though. Trust me. No electroshock.”

Bucky smiled sadly, staring down at his hands. “Then what do these modern day psych wards have?” he asked. 

“It’s like rehab, I think,” he murmured. “You get a room, a schedule... I don’t know. Art classes?”

Bucky snorted. “I’d go insane.”

“I’d like to argue that maybe you already have.”

“Asshole.”

Sam grinned. “Come on. I’m kidding. Kind of.”

“Nah. I know.” His tone grew somber, though, as if the momentary feelings of hope had worn off. He tilted his head back against the couch, shutting his eyes and swallowing thickly. “I can’t do it, Sam. I can’t go to that hospital. You know I can’t.”

He sighed. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s... it’s fine. Can you at least go to a doctor, though? You could live here, and... and be treated somewhere else.” Sam bit his cheek. “‘Cause you have to get treated. You can’t just skip that step.”

There was a moment of hesitation. “Okay,” he said finally, almost with resignation. “I’ll do that.”

Sam felt relief flood his system, and he repeated it one more time. “You’ll go get help.”

Bucky nodded, and Sam shut his eyes. His body felt numb, almost, with exhaustion and anxiety. He let out a shaking breath.

“Are you tired?” he asked Bucky, blinking his bleary eyes open.

“I can’t sleep.”

“You haven’t tried.”

“I’ve been here before, you know. I can never sleep.”

“Okay,” Sam murmured. “I’ll stay awake, then, too.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

Sam almost laughed. “Good one.”

“I’m serious. I’m fine.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that literally do not trust you.”

Bucky just cracked a smile, tilting his head back. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Sam laughed a little bit, softly. He took a sip of the cider, feeling it warm his stomach. This is not the end of the story, something told him— this was the beginning. 

Bucky didn’t lose to himself— not yet, at least. Sam knew they weren’t out of the woods, not in the clear yet, but they were getting there. There was hope, and that’s all they really needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment to let me know what you thought!


End file.
